


Baby It's Cold Outside

by CasablancaInTheTardis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gift Exchange Challenge, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, PWP, Post-Reichenbach, Prompt: Baby it's cold outside, post-reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:37:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasablancaInTheTardis/pseuds/CasablancaInTheTardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A (very late) Gift for Pernillo for the JohnlockGiftExchangeChallenge. The prompt: baby it's cold outside, established relationship, preferably M rating. </p>
<p>A study in how Sherlock uses the weather as an excuse to get John naked and the one time John uses Sherlock’s own strategy against him. Basically fluff, angst and porn without plot (for the most part).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby It's Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pernillo](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Pernillo).



**Baby It’s Cold Outside**

AKA: An study in how Sherlock uses the weather as an excuse to get John naked and the one time John uses Sherlock’s own strategy against him.

/-/-/-/-/-/

“Right, Sherlock, I’m off,” John said, buttoning up his jacket. His declaration was met with unsurprising silence. The doctor rolled his eyes.

  
“Really, John? That’s nice - where are you going? Lunch with Molly Hooper, actually, Sherlock, to screen her new boyfriend, thanks for asking - better make sure he’s not another Moriarty. Good idea, John, be safe,” John muttered, doing up his scarf.

Being in a relationship with the world’s only consulting detective was a brilliant and exciting adventure, for the most part. Then again, being in a relationship with said detective - whose self-confessed days of absolute silence were not exaggerated - meant that John often found himself narrating Sherlock’s half of the conversations.

He had hoped that their newfound coupledom would make Sherlock feel some sort of obligation to at least to pretend to care about trivial things like Molly’s new boyfriend, or what needed buying at Tesco’s, but if he was honest with himself, it had never been a great deal of hope. In any case, he loved Sherlock in spite of all his annoying habits.

At the mention of Molly (or Moriarty, perhaps) Sherlock looked up sharply from his microscope.

“Lunch with Molly?”

“Oh, you caught that bit, did you?” John exclaimed.

“Why on earth are you having lunch with Molly, of all people?” Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose. John frowned.

“She’s a friend and she wants me to meet her new partner - a bloke from St Bart’s. And I’d think that since she helped you fake your own death, you would be a bit nicer to her ‘of all people’,” he replied, unable to keep bitterness from creeping into his tone.

Sherlock at least had the decency to look properly chastened, closing his mouth against what had no doubt been a smart-ass remark.

“Right, well. I’ll be back later.”

John waited for some sort of response, but got nothing more than an intense and indecipherable stare from his partner. Trying not to sigh, he turned and made his way to the stairs.

“Don’t be too long, John. It’s cold outside,” Sherlock called as John left.

John smiled - that was as close to apologetic as Sherlock ever came, the stubborn idiot.

/-/-/-/-/-/

One of the great trials of living with the Great Sherlock Holmes was the fact that the man was loath to do virtually any chores. John didn’t mind cleaning the bathroom, living room and perhaps the odd experiment left unattended in the kitchen (the latter being in the interest of preventing accidental death). However, the one thing that would eternally irk John was Sherlock’s refusal to do the grocery shopping.

“This body is just transport, John, I don’t need to eat that much, especially when I’m on a case.”

And yet, since their relationship had taken a turn for the sexual, Sherlock’s appetite had significantly improved. So it was that John found himself mid-week with nothing in the fridge but yoghurt, half a lettuce and a tray full of index fingers.

Sherlock, as was usual between cases, could be found lounging on the couch in his pyjamas and silky blue dressing gown. His eyes were shut and his fingers steepled together over his chin in what John recognised as Sherlock’s thinking pose. At a guess, the man was probably in his mind palace - John could see his eyes moving rapidly behind shut lids. The lazy bastard, John thought affectionately.

“I’m going to the shops, lazy-arse. Need anything?”

As usual, no response. John came closer, poking Sherlock in the chest with his finger. “Oi, do you need anything?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and the doctor in John was quick to notice how dilated Sherlock’s pupils were - either he was coming down with something or he was inexplicably aroused. John felt his heart stutter slightly under Sherlock’s gaze - he still wasn’t used to being looked at like that so frequently by his flatmate.

“Don’t go now,” Sherlock said in a sleep-roughened voice. “We don’t need anything.”

“There is nothing to eat in this flat unless you fancy fingers dipped in yoghurt, Sherlock. I need to do the shopping today.”

“But you don’t have to go now,” Sherlock replied, pushing himself up to sitting and bringing himself right into John’s personal space.

“I-I do,” John stuttered, annoyed that Sherlock still had this effect on him after six months of pornographic behaviour with one another.

“But it’s cold outside, John. I can’t have you getting sick, now, can I?” Sherlock all but purred, pulling John down onto the couch with no effort at all.

“Much better you stay here with me, where it’s warm,” he continued, his breath warm on John’s ear, “don’t you think?”

“Sod the shopping,” John agreed, pushing Sherlock onto his back and straddling him. “You’re absolutely right. It’s freezing out.” He pulled off his scarf.

“Absolutely freezing,” Sherlock said, slipping John’s coat off his shoulders.

Despite his pale skin, Sherlock veritably radiated heat, his thin fingers warming John through his shirt as he gently clawed at his back.

“I can think of a good way to warm up,” he said, eyes twinkling mischievously - something they’d taken to doing since he and John had become ‘Sherlock and John’.

“Is that what you were thinking about just now?” John said, brushing Sherlock’s hair back. “Pulling me down on the couch and fucking me senseless?”

“Actually I was thinking about those fingers in the fridge,” Sherlock deadpanned.

“No, you weren’t,” John said, grinding his pelvis non-too-gently against Sherlock. The detective moaned deeply.

“You were thinking about this,” John said, nipping gently at Sherlock’s bottom lip before tonguing at it until Sherlock opened his mouth against John’s in a messy kiss.

“For once, you observe,” Sherlock muttered against his lips.

“For once, you should just shut up,” John replied, trailing his lips along Sherlock’s jawline, “Or I will find a way to make you.”

“Is that a threat, captain?” Sherlock grinned.

“It’s a guarantee,” John said, pulling back onto his knees so that he could unzip his trousers.

Sherlock quickly caught on to what John had in mind, and leant forward to help him, pulling down his pants. John closed his eyes as Sherlock’s lips wrapped around the head of his cock - the sight would have been enough to send him over the edge.

Sherlock wriggled his tongue into the slit at the top before relaxing his jaw and taking in the whole length of John’s hard cock. He felt a hand fisting in his hair and chuckled, sending a rumbling sensation along the member in his mouth.

John groaned openly at this and began to thrust slightly into Sherlock’s compliant mouth.

The detective reached around and grabbed at John’s ass, long fingers digging into the warm flesh and pulling him closer against Sherlock’s mouth.

“Ah, Sh-Sherlock, I’m-” John panted.

Sherlock made a rumbling noise of assent around John’s cock and, with a poorly-stifled shout, John came down Sherlock’s throat, the man in question swallowing every last drop of cum as it pulsated from John’s member.

Pulling back, Sherlock delicately wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, and eyed John triumphantly.

“That was...” John said, temporarily lost for words - Sherlock’s pornographic mouth sometimes (often) had that effect on him.

“I know,” was the smug reply. “And I was correct.”

John rolled his eyes, but smiled all the same. “Correct about what?”

“Two things, actually. One - you’re much warmer here than outside and, two - I’m quite satiated now so there is no need to do the groceries.”

/-/-/-/-/-/

John noticed over the next few weeks that whenever he tried to leave the flat, Sherlock would become unusually clingy and try to prevent him leaving. Though Sherlock refused to see a psychologist, John could guess the problem (years of therapy had to have taught him something, after all). John surmised that Sherlock was still adjusting to having John back in his life, and in a much more emotionally vulnerable role than before.

Furthermore, all the business with Moriarty and Moran had made the detective - for want of a better word - unsettled. He was more jumpy than before, though he tried to hide it, and John knew for a fact that he had been placed under Mycroft’s intense supervision at the request of Sherlock specifically.

Another thing that John was noticing was Sherlock’s tendency to find small excuses to get John to stay; “John, the tube will take too long, go later,” or “John, the pollen count is high today. You should stay indoors to prevent an attack of your allergies,”. The most frequent excuse, of course, was that it was cold outside and thus John should stay inside with his consulting detective, in the interests of keeping warm. This line of thinking usually devolved into sexual antics of the most delightful kind, but John did worry that Sherlock wasn’t dealing with his feelings head on and though John was loath to talk about his own feelings, he felt that Sherlock should at least give it a go.

Therefore, the next time John tried to leave the flat - for drinks with Lestrade at the pub two blocks away - he simply refused to give in to Sherlock’s crafty scheming.

“I’m off for drinks with Greg. I’ll see you later,” John called when he was halfway out the door. Sherlock, who’d been examining a sample of mud from a cold case under his microscope, scrambled to his feet and hurried after John - trying to disguise his distress, of course.

“You didn’t tell me you were going out,” he said accusatorially.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think you’d want to come,” John lied.

“You didn’t tell me because you didn’t want me to come up with a way of stopping you,” Sherlock corrected archly. “You can’t lie to me, it doesn’t work.”

 

“What difference does it make? I’m going out, for drinks, and you can come if you want to but I have to get out of this flat.”

“What’s wrong with this flat?” Sherlock demanded, looking as though he’d been personally insulted.

“Nothing’s wrong with it, excepting the odd chemical smells in the kitchen and the fact that you never clean up after yourself, but I am sick of being stuck in here.”

“We go out all the time, on cases-”

“You wouldn’t even let me out to do the groceries last week and I know why, Sherlock.”

The detective raised an eyebrow, managing to ooze condescension and disdain when not the moment before he’d been pleading with his partner not to leave. “Do you?”

“You still haven’t dealt with what happened. With Moran and Moriarty. You’re afraid something will happen to me when you’re not around to protect me. I’ve got news for you, Sherlock: I survived two and a half years without you, and nothing bad happened, and before that, I was in the army. I can handle myself, okay? And I don’t need you, or your nosy brother, for that matter, keeping tabs on me twenty-four seven. Do you understand?”

There was a heavy pause between the two of them.

“Do you understand?” Sherlock whispered, and John was shocked to see Sherlock’s eyes watering.

“Sherlock, I-”

Sherlock shook his head slightly with a sad smile. “It’s fine, John. Go have your boys night out. I’ll just-” he gestured miserably at the flat behind him.

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose - he wanted to be annoyed at Sherlock for being so needy and emotionally stunted, but he equally wanted to bundle the man up and cover him with kisses until he forgot all about the horrible things they’d both been through.

“Sherlock, it’s just... We can’t keep on like this. You worrying all the time, me getting frustrated at you, you using sex to keep me around... Well, that part I don’t mind so much-”

Sherlock let out a small laugh. “But it’s got to stop. Anxiety like that... It doesn’t just go away. You need help-”

Sherlock snorted.

“You do, Sherlock, even if you don’t want to admit it. You can’t even let me leave the flat to go two blocks for a pint with Lestrade who, might I remind you, is a high-ranking police officer at Scotland Yard. Am I right?”

Sherlock shrugged petulantly. John sighed and made to leave again, but a warm hand grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket.

“All right, John, maybe you have a point and maybe I do need to talk to someone about it but why can’t that someone be you?”

“It can be, if you want, but I’m not qualified for dealing with that sort of thing-”

“Maybe if you understood what happened while I was gone-”

“You can try to explain it to me, Sherlock, but I’ll still need my space. Relationships can’t survive if the two people are on top of one another all the time. People need breathing room. And I want this to work, Sherlock. I want us to work because you’re-” he sighed again. “I hate talking about my feelings, you know that, but you know how much you mean to me, don’t you?”

“Almost as much as you mean to me, I’d imagine,” Sherlock replied quietly.

“More.”

“But you still won’t stay?”

John looked at Sherlock, who was wearing an expression like a beaten puppy. He knew he was being manipulated into staying home but if Sherlock was honestly promising to work on it, he’d let it go just this once.

“Do you promise to talk to someone? Come see Ella with me, even?”

“Yes, John, I promise.”

“Well, I’ll text Lestrade. I’m sure he won’t mind flying solo tonight.”

Sherlock smiled his small, quiet smile - the one that seemed happy and sad all at once. John led him over to the couch and sat down at his end, tugging gently for Sherlock to follow. The consulting detective lay down on his side, tucking his feet up close to his body, and resting his head in John’s lap. John flicked the telly on to some program about moving to the country for background noise, and combed his fingers through Sherlock’s ridiculously silky hair, letting his nails graze along the scalp.

“Thank you,” Sherlock mumbled, and John knew he wasn’t referring to his playing with Sherlock’s hair.

“No problem,” he replied, hoping that now things would start to improve.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Two months and several ‘pointless’ therapy sessions later and John noticed a marked improvement in Sherlock’s demeanour, even if the detective refused to acknowledge the fact that it was the talking about things that had made him better.

John did notice, however, that Sherlock still liked to use any and all excuses to waylay him, whether he be on his way to work or off to visit Harry, in favour of sexual encounters. Not that he minded, of course. Though he wouldn’t necessarily agree with Sherlock on the appropriateness of the whens and wheres. Last Tuesday, for example, he had been with Sherlock at the morgue, examining a corpse when he’d been called in to work at the surgery.

“Sherlock, I’ve got to go. They need me at work. Hodgins called in sick, so I should probably hurry.”

“We’re in the middle of a case!” Sherlock cried indignantly. “How do you expect me to carry on when my medical examiner is off dealing with geriatrics who need to drink more calcium and teenagers who really should pay more attention in their sex-ed classes?”

“I’m hardly a medical examiner, and you seemed to cope perfectly well without me last time,” John said flatly, pulling on his jacket.

“Besides, we agreed. Cause of death was asphyxiation, probably rope given the burn marks on her neck. Swab under the fingernails and get Molly to run it for you.”

“Molly’s gone to lunch. We’re on our own down here,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Oh, no. No, no, no, Sherlock, stop that,” John said, knowing how Sherlock’s mind works. “We are not having sex in a morgue!”

“Who said anything about sex? Really, John, I know you’re a red-blooded male who has needs, but it’s the middle of the day and we’re on a case,” Sherlock admonished.

“And as if that’s ever stopped you before,” John scoffed. “Besides, I know you, Sherlock. I know exactly what you’re thinking when you say ‘we’re all alone’ and, knowing you, sex in a morgue is probably on your bucket list.”

“What makes you think I haven’t already ticked that off?” Sherlock grinned wolfishly.

“Please tell me it wasn’t with a corpse!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It was with an intern here, years before I met you. This very room, actually. Right over there by that stainless steel bench-top. He wasn’t as good as you, to be honest, but I made sure he wouldn’t forget it in a hurry.”

“Sherlock,” John growled, “Stop it.”

“Why, John?” the detective tilted his head in mock confusion, “Is my story making you uncomfortable?”

“You know full well what it’s making me and I refuse to have a hard-on in a room full of dead bodies,” John hissed.

“Well, I know a perfectly acceptable way of getting rid of one,” Sherlock wheedled, stalking over to his army doctor who was awkwardly trying to conceal his growing erection. “Will you let me help?”

“This is wrong...” John said, unable to stop himself from gravitating towards Sherlock. “In a room full of dead bodies when I should be on my way to work.”

“Most of them are in drawers, they won’t see a thing,” Sherlock said, cupping John through his trousers. “And you well know, it’s cold out. You’re far better off in here.”

“It seems like cold weather is becoming code for ‘let’s have sex’,” John remarked, pressing into Sherlock’s grip.

“It can be,” Sherlock said, “Or I could just ask you to fuck me?”

“Oh, God, yes,” John said, surging forward and pressing his lips to Sherlock’s.

Sherlock’s nimble fingers made quick work of undoing John’s trousers, shoving them down over his hips. The doctor toed off his shoes and stepped out of his the fabric pooling around his feet without breaking contact. When Sherlock slipped off his jacket, John pulled back.

“We really shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, though his tone made it clear to Sherlock that they were going to do it anyway. In place of a response, Sherlock began to unbutton his shirt, enjoying the way John’s attention was immediately drawn to the gradual exposure of his pale skin. Deciding to leave the shirt unbuttoned but on, Sherlock then made to remove his trousers, but John interrupted.

“Let me.”

John tugged Sherlock’s clothing off, allowing his hands to linger on slightly bony hips before turning the detective around and bending him over the bench-top. With no lube to hand, John coated his fingers with saliva and gently circled the rim of Sherlock’s anus before pressing in. Sherlock exhaled loudly, pressing back on the intrusion. John stroked in and out, adding another finger and scissoring them.

“If you could see yourself right now, Sherlock...”

“I’m ready,” Sherlock moaned, pushing back on John’s fingers, “Now, John.”

“Do you have any condoms?”

“Pocket of my coat. Lube, too.”

Reluctant to leave the detective, John hurriedly found what he needed and made himself ready, lining himself up. Slowly, he pressed the head of his cock past the tight ring of muscle, gripping Sherlock’s hips hard as he did so. Sherlock was already panting slightly, his hands gripping white-knuckled to the edge of the bench he was angled over.

“All right?” John managed. Sherlock nodded and John forced himself further in till he was fully seated in Sherlock’s ass. After a moment, Sherlock nodded again and John withdrew slightly, before sliding back in.

John closed his eyes at the sensation - Sherlock was always so hot when clenched around John’s cock, and John couldn’t help the huff of breath he let out.

“More, John,” was Sherlock’s gravelly command, spurring John into action.

He pumped in and out of Sherlock’s ass, gaining momentum until the force of his thrusts began to slam Sherlock harder into the bench-top, pressing Sherlock’s erection into the cold underside of the bench. The contrast in temperature was a shock, causing the man to cry out. Not thinking of anything beyond his own pleasure - including that of his partner - John gave in to his orgasm, pulsing deep into Sherlock.

At the same time, Sherlock took himself in hand and quickly finished himself off, the aftershocks shuddering through his whole body, the sight of which gave John one last tremor of pleasure.

John reluctantly withdrew himself and pulled off the condom, disposing it in a bin marked for hazardous materials, and refastening his trousers. By the time he was done, Sherlock had still barely moved; his shirt was hanging off his shoulders, his trousers were still around his ankles as he was leaning back on the bench-top. He looked up at John through his mess of dark hair with something between a smirk and look of gratitude.

Not currently able to form a coherent sentence, John merely tipped his head in acknowledgement of a fuck well had, before letting himself out of the morgue and (reluctantly) heading to the surgery for his shift, feeling dirty, debauched and incredibly satisfied. Then, of course, he realised that he had once again been talked into inappropriately-timed sex by his lover with only the weather as an excuse. _Next time_ , John thought, _I will use his own tricks against him_.

/-/-/-/-/-/

It was Christmas day and London was covered in a greyish-white sludge of snow when Sherlock received the text from Lestrade.

_Body found on the left bank of the Thames. No identification aside from satanic-looking tattoo on the victim’s forehead. Similar to_ _another found in Chiswick two days ago. Stumped. Will you come?_

“No, Sherlock, absolutely not. You promised.”

“But, Johhhhhn. This is murder. Murder is more interesting than Christmas lunch with my mother.”

John crossed his arms, setting his feet apart in what he considered his authoritative stance - Sherlock privately called it his toddler-tantrum stance, but he’d never tell John that.

“This is our first Christmas as a couple, Sherlock. Our first Christmas together since you... Returned-” he cleared his throat - Sherlock’s faked death and subsequent re-appearance was still a sensitive issue. “I’ve met your mother twice in my life - in passing at your wake and when Mycroft organised that dinner to introduce ‘the happy couple’, and in those two meetings it became quite apparent to me that, though lovely, your mother is not the sort of woman you cancel on.”

“My mother would understand if it was due to pressing business, like a murder, John,” Sherlock drawled, walking over the coffee table.

“No she bloody well wouldn’t, and you know it.”

“John, I simply refuse to argue this with you. I am going and you can consider it your Christmas present to me. I’ll like it a good deal better than the new shirt you bought me.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry that my sartorial taste is not up to your standards, Beau Brummell, but it’s the thought that counts at Christmas, didn’t anyone tell you that? And what are you looking for?”

Sherlock was rummaging through the pile of clothing by the door, waiting for Mrs Hudson to do wonders with bleach and fabric softener.

“I cannot wear my pyjamas to a crime scene, John. How ridiculous you can be.”

“Sherlock, stop. Turn. Look at me,” John ordered.

The rumpled-looking genius sighed deeply, then did exactly as he was asked, eyeing John with scepticism.

“Your scarf was ripped to shreds during our last case, your great coat is at the dry-cleaners in the hopes that blood stains will wash out and you do not, for some reason beyond me, own any thermals. It is bloody freezing outside, not to mention snowing. There is a turkey in our oven and for once our fridge is full of wine instead of assorted body parts. We are hosting this lunch whether there is a killer on the loose or not - if it’s not too late, you can go investigating afterwards. For now, it is time to clean up, get dressed and put on our Christmas do.”

“Are you trying to forbid me from leaving?”

“Correction, I am forbidding you.”

Sherlock laughed derisively. “I’m a grown man, you can’t stop me from doing anything.”

“Really?” John replied, unfolding his arms and striding over to Sherlock who was still hunched over the pile of dirty laundry. John grabbed his waif of a partner roughly by the shoulders and shoved him against the wall, knocking the breath out of him and taking the cocky expression with it. “I can stop you from leaving, Sherlock, and do you want to know how?”

Sherlock was silent, though John noted his breathing had gone shallow and there was that look in his eyes that made John’s pants uncomfortably tight.

“I can make you want to stay,” John whispered against Sherlock’s ear, before biting down hard the lobe and sucking on it soothingly.

“Ugh,” Sherlock moaned.

“Eloquent as always, darling,” John mocked, loving it when he had the upper hand, “But I was rather hoping you’d say that you’ll stay.”

Sherlock’s hands were pushing at John’s chest, trying to regain his personal space and self control, but John ignored them. He might be shorter, but he was stronger and could tell that Sherlock was aroused - his hard dick pushing against John’s hip was a dead giveaway.

“But a case, John,” he said breathily. “Murders and criminals and- ah!”

John had ground his hips against Sherlock’s, causing a delicious friction even though they were both fully clothed.

“What was that, love?” John said lightly, circling his hips against Sherlock’s in a way that made the detective arch his chest forwards off the wall behind him.

“A c-case,” Sherlock stuttered, sounding less and less convinced with every well-timed thrust of John’s hip.

“Baby, it’s cold outside. Just stay. Say you’ll stay,” John murmured, trailing the fingers of his right hand down Sherlock’s front and letting it linger in front of the string-bow of his pyjama pants.

“I’ll stay,” Sherlock whimpered in defeat.

“Good,” was all John had time to say before crushing his lips against Sherlock’s, fisting one hand in Sherlock’s hair and using the other to untie his trousers. When John’s warm, slightly calloused hand wrapped around Sherlock’s long prick he gave a small sigh of relief, tilting his hips forward into the contact. John moved to Sherlock’s side, slowly rubbing his groin against the taller man’s muscly thigh while he moved his hand up and down on Sherlock’s cock.

“Ugh, John,” Sherlock moaned, “More!”

Peppering kisses up and down the side of Sherlock’s neck, John made his hand into a fist for Sherlock to thrust into, letting Sherlock do as he wished. He ran a thumb over the slit and spread the pre-cum he found there over Sherlock’s member.

John frotted against Sherlock’s leg, faster, now - the friction was almost unbearable, but so good at the same time. He was going to come in his pants like a teenager, but the noises Sherlock was making were too delicious to give him time to care.

“Please, John, I want more,” he whined.

Without hesitation, John slipped his trousers and pants down, moving around so that he and Sherlock were face to face again, their cocks lined up against one another. John gathered both of Sherlock’s bony wrists in one hand and pressed them against the wall above Sherlock’s head, using it as his point of leverage.

He moved his hips against Sherlock’s, their pricks slipping against each other slightly due to the amount of pre-cum they’d both produced. Though his hand wasn’t big enough to hold both of them at the same time, John tried his best to add friction and pressure in the midst of their franticly grinding hips.

“Oh, oh... John. John! Yes, John, ugh!”

Sherlock came violently, his whole body shuddering and clenching, his face slack as the tension left his body. Seeing Sherlock so open and unguarded, not to mention the feeling of wetness and heat, sent John over the edge after him.

After a few moments of exhausted panting and lazy kisses, the pair moved off the wall.

“You know, we should have a rule that any agreement entered into during or just before an orgasm shouldn’t be legally binding,” Sherlock mused.

“Ah, yes, but then how would I ever get you to agree to anything?” John grinned.

There was a beat before Sherlock's brow crinkled in thought. 

"It occurs to me that you've just used my own methods against me," he said, sounding both indignant and impressed at the same time. 

"Well, now that I know that it works both ways, don't think I won't use it more often to get my way," John grinned. 

**The End**

/-/-/-/-/-/

Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed my first foray into terribly descriptive smut! A very big apology to Pernillo for keeping them waiting for their gift! Hope it lived up to expectations!


End file.
